Instant Pot Chili con Carne

A student came to see me after class on Wednesday — a junior named Elena, who is one of the best writers I've had in years and who is also, I have recently learned, dealing with a grandmother who has dementia. She didn't come to talk about English. She came because another student told her that Mrs. Feldman's husband has Alzheimer's, and she wanted to tell me that she understands, and I looked at this seventeen-year-old girl standing in my classroom with tears in her eyes and I thought: this is why I teach. Not the books. Not the essays. This. The moment when a person looks at another person and says, "I know what you're carrying, and you're not carrying it alone."

I thanked Elena. I told her about the soup — about bringing soup to her grandmother, about the specific act of feeding someone who is forgetting. She nodded. She said she brings her grandmother arroz con pollo. I said, "That's the same thing. Different language, same love." She hugged me. Seventeen-year-olds do not usually hug their English teachers. I let her. Some moments are bigger than professional boundaries.

I made a beef stew this week — not because anyone asked for it, but because December demands heavy food, warm food, food that sticks to the ribs and fortifies you against the cold. The stew was simple: beef, potatoes, carrots, onions, red wine, thyme. Hours of low heat. The house smelled like the opposite of winter. Marvin ate two bowls and said, "More, please," which is a sentence I haven't heard from him in weeks, a sentence that implies awareness of desire and the language to express it, and I ladled the stew into his bowl and watched him eat and thought: more. Yes. Always more. As long as you want it, there is more.

The stew I made that week was really a version of this — the same impulse, the same alchemy of beef and time and low heat turning something ordinary into something sustaining. I’ve since moved toward chili con carne when I need that same effect in less time, because the Instant Pot gives me the deep, long-simmered flavor without the hours of waiting, and some weeks I need the comfort faster than I can wait for it. Marvin asked for more. That sentence is still with me. This is the recipe I make when I need to believe there will always be more.

Prep Time: 15 min | Cook Time: 35 min | Total Time: 50 min | Servings: 6

Ingredients

2 lbs beef chuck, cut into 3/4-inch cubes
1 tablespoon olive oil
1 large yellow onion, diced
4 cloves garlic, minced
1 green bell pepper, diced
2 tablespoons chili powder
1 teaspoon ground cumin
1 teaspoon smoked paprika
1/2 teaspoon dried oregano
1/4 teaspoon cayenne pepper (optional)
1 (14.5 oz) can diced tomatoes
1 (15 oz) can kidney beans, drained and rinsed
1 cup beef broth
1 tablespoon tomato paste
1 teaspoon salt, plus more to taste
1/2 teaspoon black pepper

Instructions

Brown the beef. Set the Instant Pot to “Sauté” mode and add olive oil. Working in batches, brown the beef cubes on all sides, about 3–4 minutes per batch. Remove and set aside.
Sauté the aromatics. Add the onion and bell pepper to the pot and cook, stirring occasionally, until softened, about 3 minutes. Add garlic and cook 1 minute more.
Bloom the spices. Stir in chili powder, cumin, smoked paprika, oregano, and cayenne. Cook for 30 seconds, stirring constantly, until fragrant.
Deglaze and combine. Add the tomato paste and stir to coat. Pour in the beef broth and scrape up any browned bits from the bottom of the pot. Return the browned beef to the pot along with the diced tomatoes and kidney beans. Stir well and season with salt and pepper.
Pressure cook. Lock the lid and set the valve to “Sealing.” Cook on High Pressure for 25 minutes. Once done, allow a natural pressure release for 10 minutes, then carefully quick-release any remaining pressure.
Finish and serve. Taste and adjust seasoning as needed. Ladle into bowls and serve with crusty bread, cornbread, or over rice. Top with sour cream, shredded cheese, or sliced green onions if desired.

Nutrition (per serving)

Instant Pot Chili con Carne — The Warmth You Make When Words Aren’t Enough